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Victor Hugo and His Famous Poems - The novelist, poet, and dramatist Victor Marie Hugo was born in Besançon, France, Feb. 26, 1802 and died May 22, 1885, was the preeminent French man of letters of the 19th century and the leading exponent and champion of romanticism. Victor Hugo is a writer whose works are discussed more often than they are actually read. Perhaps we had Les Misérables force-fed to us in high school or saw one of the many film versions of his novel The Hunchback of Notre Dame. But of his many other works of prose, poetry, and drama, most modern readers are ignorant -- as they are of the details of Hugo's life. In Victor Hugo, Graham Robb brings a fresh eye to an old subject with laudable results.

During his lifetime, Hugo himself was the author of most of the legend that has grown up around him, from his pastoral conception on a mountainside to his heroic republican opposition to Napoleon. Robb turns these myths inside out as he searches for the underlying compulsions that led Hugo to obsessively recreate his own history. Robb thoroughly and compassionately presents the tangled, sometimes sordid, often ridiculous events of Hugo's life, at the same time commenting knowledgeably on his work. Victor Hugo is a terrific biography of a fascinating man, a great motivator for readers to start agitating for more translations of Hugo's work.

The dawn is smiling on the dew that covers The tearful roses; lo, the little loversThat kiss the buds, and all the flutterings In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings, That go and come, and fly, and peep and hide, With muffled music, murmured far and wide. Ah, the Spring time, when we think of all the lays That dreamy lovers send to dreamy mays, Of the fond hearts within a billet bound, Of all the soft silk paper that pens wound, The messages of love that mortals write Filled with intoxication of delight, Written in April and before the May time Shredded and flown, playthings for the wind's playtime, We dream that all white butterflies above, Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love, And leave their lady mistress in despair, To flit to flowers, as kinder and more fair, Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies Flutter, and float, and change to butterflies

You can see it already: chalks and ochers; Country crossed with a thousand furrow-lines;Ground-level rooftops hidden by the shrubbery; Sporadic haystacks standing on the grass;Smoky old rooftops tarnishing the landscape; A river (not Cayster or Ganges, though:A feeble Norman salt-infested watercourse); On the right, to the north, bizarre terrainll angular--you'd think a shovel did it. So that's the foreground. An old chapel addsIts antique spire, and gathers alongside it A few gnarled elms with grumpy silhouettes;Seemingly tired of all the frisky breezes, They carp at every gust that stirs them up.At one side of my house a big wheelbarrow Is rusting; and before me lies the vastHorizon, all its notches filled with ocean blue; Cocks and hens spread their gildings, and converseBeneath my window; and the rooftop attics, Now and then, toss me songs in dialect.In my lane dwells a patriarchal rope-maker; The old man makes his wheel run loud, and goesRetrograde, hemp wreathed tightly round the midriff. I like these waters where the wild gale scuds;All day the country tempts me to go strolling; The little village urchins, book in hand,Envy me, at the schoolmaster's (my lodging), As a big schoolboy sneaking a day off.The air is pure, the sky smiles; there's a constant Soft noise of children spelling things aloud.The waters flow; a linnet flies; and I say: "Thank you! Thank you, Almighty God!"--So, then, I live:Peacefully, hour by hour, with little fuss, I shed My days, and think of you, my lady fair!I hear the children chattering; and I see, at times, Sailing across the high seas in its pride,Over the gables of the tranquil village, Some winged ship which is traveling far away,Flying across the ocean, hounded by all the winds. Lately it slept in port beside the quay.Nothing has kept it from the jealous sea-surge:No tears of relatives, nor fears of wives, Nor reefs dimly reflected in the waters,Nor importunity of sinister birds.The Grave And The Rose

The Grave said to the Rose, "What of the dews of dawn, Love's flower, what end is theirs?" "And what of spirits flown, The souls whereon doth close The tomb's mouth unawares?" The Rose said to the Grave.

The Rose said, "In the shade From the dawn's tears is made A perfume faint and strange, Amber and honey sweet." "And all the spirits fleet Do suffer a sky-change, More strangely than the dew, To God's own angels new," The Grave said to the Rose.

That brow, that smile, that cheek so fair,Beseem my child, who weeps and plays:A heavenly spirit guards her ways,From whom she stole that mixture rare.Through all her features shining mild,The poet sees an angel there,The father sees a child.

And by their flame so pure and bright,We see how lately those sweet eyesHave wandered down from Paradise,And still are lingering in its light.

All earthly things are but a shadeThrough which she looks at things above,And sees the holy Mother-maid,Athwart her mother's glance of love.

She seems celestial songs to hear,And virgin souls are whispering near.Till by her radiant smile deceived,I say, 'Young angel, lately given,When was thy martyrdom achieved?And what name lost thou bear in heaven?'

Why, brother, why upon me stare?Why do your brows so fiercely lower?Your eyes like funeral torches glare,Beneath their gloomy looks I cower.Why do I see your sashes rent?Why have you thrice your fingers laidUpon the sheath? What dire intentMakes you half draw the glittering blade?FIRST BROTHER

Home from the bath my path I took—Brothers! Look not so terribly!—And I was hidden from the lookOf every unbeliever's eye.But as the Mosque I hurried by,Close covered in my palanquin,Stifled beneath the mid-day sky,I loosed my veil to breathe between.SECOND BROTHER

Where are the hapless shipmen?--disappeared,Gone down, where witness none, save Night, hath been,Ye deep, deep waves, of kneeling mothers feared,What dismal tales know ye of things unseen?Tales that ye tell your whispering selves betweenThe while in clouds to the flood-tide ye pour;And this it is that gives you, as I ween,Those mournful voices, mournful evermore,When ye come in at eve to us who dwell on shore.

When the voice of thy lute at the eveCharmeth the ear,In the hour of enchantment believeWhat I murmur near.That the tune can the Age of GoldWith its magic restore.Play on, play on, my fair one,Play on for evermore.

When thy laugh like the song of the dawnRiseth so gayThat the shadows of Night are withdrawnAnd melt away,I remember my years of careAnd misgiving no more.Laugh on, laugh on, my fair one,Laugh on for evermore.

When thy sleep like the moonlight aboveLulling the sea,Doth enwind thee in visions of love,Perchance, of me!I can watch so in dream that enthralled me,Never before!Sleep on, sleep on, my fair one!Sleep on for evermore.